


the perfect taste that leaves your mouth

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Comfort, Coping, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-s03e10, Post-s04e01, Secret Relationship, basically art and felix have been abandoned and really need some damn company ok, i have emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-10-17 23:57:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10605006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: Art came to him with tired eyes, a wearied smile, and wrinkled casual clothes that clung to his lean body in a way that said he’d been dragged out of sleep– and driven to Felix’s door– by heavy thoughts.





	1. the vodka tongue that spits it out

Art came to him with tired eyes, a wearied smile, and wrinkled casual clothes that clung to his lean body in a way that said he’d been dragged out of sleep– and driven to Felix’s door– by heavy thoughts.

“You got a minute?” He asked, words exhausted but not slurred by alcohol. Not yet. Felix had a martini in his hand, and he grabbed Art by the shoulder, pulling him inside with the intent of changing that. If he was going to play therapist for a night, alcohol would need to be involved.

“Come on in, Arthur,” he sighed, offering a grin that he knew fell just short of being convincing. He took a hard slug of his drink, draining the glass, and slammed the door closed behind Art. Maybe it was the suddenness and aggressiveness of his movements, or maybe it was the absence of cheerful flirtation in his manner– either way, when he turned around to offer Art a drink, he was met with a worried frown.

“You okay, Felix?”

“Me?” Felix pressed a hand to his sternum with a dramatic air of petulant surprise, “why wouldn’t I be okay? I mean, my sister’s living in the middle of god-knows-where, my boyfriend won’t answer my texts, and I’m left to stew here in my own misery, waiting for something _else_ to go wrong. Why,” he laughed, almost hysterical now, “ _Why_ wouldn’t I be _okay,_ Arthur?”

Art’s face softened, an empathy in his eyes that Felix hadn’t expected. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have come.”

Felix sighed, rubbed at his face. “No, you… You’ve been good to us, Arthur. I owe you the time of day. What’s wrong?”

His hand dropped to his side, and Art looked away, gaze lingering for a moment on the explosion of graffiti that had overtaken a section of the wall. He fidgeted, hands hovering beside his thighs, and Felix couldn't help but allow his eyes to wander over that tantalisingly fitted denim, that tight grey shirt. He wondered, in a haze of alcohol and loneliness, what Art's gorgeous dark skin would taste like. A vision of himself down on his knees flashed, for a moment, behind his eyes, but he crushed it down. He knew about Art's kid, his ex-wife. An advance would just make more damn trouble.

“Guess I… just wanted some company.” Art swallowed tightly, looked back at Felix. There wasn’t shyness in his face, but shit, it was something close, and Felix found himself blinking in surprise.

“…Yeah. Yeah, sure. I could do with some human contact myself.”

Art smiled, a relieved rush of breath quietly shuddering from his mouth. The sigh seemed to shake him, right to his core, and Felix thought about Beth. He thought about how Art was caught up in the whole clone mess, and he’d never even asked for this.

Felix could relate.

He placed a hand on Art’s shoulder, held him steady. It felt different, interacting with Art like this, letting his usual dramatic flourishes fade into seriousness. Their eyes met, and Felix could see it in Art’s face– he could _tell._ He could see that Felix was too tired to pretend, too exhausted by all this _bullshit_ to play the cheerful gay brother role.

He held up his glass. “Drink?”

Art grinned. “Yeah. Yeah, sounds good Felix.”

 

 


	2. take my voices, learn to love them

Art sat himself down among the bright, cluttered chaos of Felix’s bohemian digs, and it was almost odd how much he fit in. Without his badge and his official coat, without the lingering stench of authority that even Sarah had come to forgive in him, he seemed almost… relaxed. Like Felix could slip a joint between his fingers and Art would take a slow drag, lean into Felix’s personal space and breathe smoke into his mouth. His clothes were tight in all the best ways, and his thighs were rounded with muscle, filling out his jeans with a satisfying, tempting tautness. He leaned back, tired and honest in a way that Felix’s friends– the majority of whom were egotistical and artistic intellectuals who did too many drugs and needed a cold hard dose of _shut the fuck up–_ could never manage to be. His strong face was handsomely worn _,_ lined with the exhaustion of someone who had seen the world; someone who had been a husband, someone who was a father, someone who had an unyielding sense of right and wrong and _totally fucked up._

Felix liked that. He was sick of himself, sick of the broken young poets and their bitter coffee, the way their once-beautiful faces were only ever characterised by loneliness and anorexic addiction. Sick of the monologues of peace and justice, the idealism that sat so removed from real life that he’d give anything just to be reminded what the _real fucking world_ was when it didn't involve clones or Neolutionists.

He prepared two martinis at his kitchen bench as Art curiously peered up at the cluster of mannequins that stood dejectedly in the corner of the spacious apartment. They were dented and chipped, owing to the fact that Felix had drunkenly procured them after a night of disappointing sex in the back of a storeroom.

“This is some interesting décor, Felix.”

“Yeah,” Felix sighed, throwing one hand carelessly up into the air, “I’m working out my psychological problems using free and unrestricted artistic expression.”

“Sounds to me like you’re parroting someone there,” Art observed, his voice quiet and amused. _Tender,_ almost.

“My therapist,” Felix confirmed, spinning around smoothly, head inclined to the side, shrugging with what he hoped was convincing apathy, “one of them, anyway. There were a few over the years, until dear old mummy gave up on traditional methods of re-education.”

Art reached up and took his drink, murmuring a quiet thanks. Felix put his own glass down alongside a bottle of Absolute– after taking a sizeable gulp, of course– and went to go turn on some music. Beats Antique. Experimental world fusion. Electronica. Winding, hypnotising tunes, exactly the kind of stuff Felix could imagine Art would never, ever listen to. He figured he may as well make this experience as _different_ as possible; if Art wanted a reprieve from his status quo, Felix could more than give it to him.

He liked to think Art checked out his ass while he was bent over looking at his iPhone.

Art coughed as Felix sat down, squinting at the toxically clear liquid in his glass. Felix grinned. He could almost feel the burn on Art’s tongue. Part of him wanted to get a more… _tactile_ experience of that mouth. Those lips.

“The hell is this?” Art asked, voice rough and hoarse.

“A martini!” Felix said defensively, picking up his glass and chugging another mouthful, just because he could– just to see Art’s eyebrows raise in shock, just to see the hint of concern in those dark eyes. He knew how he looked. The broken little orphan boy, grown up way too fast, a record of solicitation and possession following him throughout a lifetime of grimy debauchery. Well, he wasn’t a boy anymore. He was a man. And a fucking exhausted one at that.

“This,” Art gestured to his glass, “is just _vodka_.”

“Desperate times, Arthur,” Felix raised his glass in a mock toast, “desperate times.”

Art sighed and sat back in Felix’s couch, toeing off his shoes as he took another pained sip. “Yeah, I’ll drink to that. Though I prefer rum myself, if I drink at all.”

Felix noted the weary edge to his voice. “Don’t get much of a chance to let off steam, do you?”

“I’ve got a little girl, Felix. She’s not gonna grow up watching her dad get a load off every time things get tough.”

 _That makes you better than most adults I grew up idolising,_ Felix thought dryly, almost admiringly.

“Must be hard,” he said, as if he really understood, “having that much responsibility. No chance to relax.”

Art chuckled. “Yeah, she’s not the reason I can’t relax, Felix. I did fine, before…”

_Before my partner jumped in front of a goddamn train._

He didn’t need to say it. Felix didn’t ask him to, either.

“’Sides, her mom has her most days, so…” Art sighed shakily, “Shit. I shouldn’t see that as an advantage.”

Felix frowned. “What d’you mean?”

“If she was… at my place, when something happened with Sarah and her sisters… If someone _came for me,_ while she was there, I…”

His voice trailed off, almost listless with a horror he wouldn’t entirely let himself comprehend, and Felix looked him up and down, startled by the depth of character he’d only ever before been allowed to glimpse. The fact that he was privy to hearing this made him feel uncomfortable, and oddly proud.

“Jesus. ‘Course.” Felix touched him gently, fingers brushing Art’s wrist. “Sorry.”

Art shook his head, and his next sip was considerably larger, more desperate. Chasing oblivion. Pursuing a hangover that would knock him dead, make it all go away.

“Our chats are usually so much more fun than this,” Felix laughed. To his relief, a small smile tugged at Art’s lips– hesitant and pained, but genuine.

“Our chats are only fun ‘cause of you, Felix.”

“Aw,” Felix replied, grinning, “Don’t be so hard on yourself, darling.”

They slipped into silence, then, and the quiet was accompanied by the ease and camaraderie of two people who had fought beside each other in a war they had not wanted to join. And friendship as well, maybe. Felix wasn’t sure. He could feel a warmth humming through him with the force of a second heartbeat, and he wondered if the feeling was mutual. Wondered if Art felt this curiosity too, this impulse to do something _rash._ The itch to close the distance between them and crush boundaries beneath the slick meeting of their mouths.

Maybe the fact they weren’t _exactly_ friends made the temptation even stronger. Like they were free to do whatever they liked, simply because they didn’t fit a definition to begin with.

Or. That was how Felix rationalised it.

“So, you said… your boyfriend’s not answering your texts?”

Felix blinked. “What?”

Art shrugged. “You said that. Before.”

“…You really expect me to regale you with my romantic woes, Arthur?” Felix raised his eyebrows high, let his voice drip with barely-humorous scorn, pretending like he wasn’t imagining Art asking after his lovelife for _another reason entirely._

“I’m just making conversation,” Art replied easily, holding up a hand with placating calmness. Fuck, he was so unflappable, so goddamn honest. Felix wanted to push him down into the couch just to see him blink twice.

“Could’ve picked a better damn topic.”

Art let his hand fall beside his thigh, had a patient sip of his drink. Felix, after a beat of silence, sighed with resignation.

“No, he was…” Felix massaged his forehead tiredly, letting his eyes dip closed as he thought of the poor, repressed man he’d been shacking up with for the past week. _Boyfriend_ was hardly an appropriate term for _fucking and swearing and fighting and kissing,_ and the desperation with which that man had touched Felix made him want to puke just from remembering it. He didn’t want internalised homophobia. He just wanted a good, honest man, who could look Felix in the eyes while they made love.

Shame the world only ever gave him people he wasn’t entitled to.

“…Felix?”

Felix sighed, opening his eyes and trying not to think about Colin. About how _perfect_ they’d been together.

“He was just some guy. It was never gonna last.”

Art nodded, looking concerned. “Why’s that?”

“Whole lot of reasons. But mostly, Sarah kept bloody calling me _,_ and every date we went on ended so badly I _swear_ a camera should have been following me around. Hard to fix anything when you’re running around trying to stop,” Felix drew a sharp breath, hardly believing he was speaking the words, “a giant corporation from killing off human clones _.”_

Art laughed loudly, heartily, and Felix couldn’t help but grin.

“Yeah, I hear you.”

Felix reached over for the Absolute bottle. He refilled his glass straight, not bothering with any embellishments. “Had some spectacular romances derailed ourselves, have we?”

Art’s smile faded quick. So fast that Felix knew, immediately, that he had made a mistake. A huge one.

“Beth and I…”

It was the start of a confession. A whispered secret. Felix’s eyes grew wide with shock, and then Art was hiding his face in his hands, drawing his palms up over his eyes, jaw tight and teeth clenched.

“Christ, Arthur,” Felix breathed, not knowing what else to say. What else to offer. He put down his drink slowly.

Everything stood still for a moment.

“Does Sarah… know…?”

Art sat forward, draining the rest of his drink hurriedly, elbows braced on his knees. He was avoiding Felix’s eyes with a panicked anger, and Felix could tell he hadn’t meant to let this secret out _ever._

“No. And you’re not gonna tell her, either.”

Felix nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Art poured himself a glass, drank half of it straight, coughed, bowing his head. Felix did him the courtesy of pretending those tears were just from the vodka.

“I’m sorry-”

“No, don’t be. I didn’t plan to come here and… lay that on you. Shit, I should go-”

He rose to his feet, but Felix was right behind him, stepping to block his path out of the apartment.

“No. No, stay.”

Art moved forward anyway, disorientated by grief, and suddenly he was pressed up against Felix, anxious breaths touching against Felix’s cheek. He went to step away, but Felix held him still, lifted his arms and wrapped them tight around his broken friend.

“It’s okay,” He whispered, “Shh, Arthur. It’s alright, you can trust me.”

Art twitched in his hold, fidgeting like he wanted to resume running away, but Felix heard a quiet sniff and knew that Art was crying. So he held tighter, gave Art what he needed. Comfort. Closeness.

“Everyone’s gotta have someone who knows,” he murmured, letting his eyes close, chin resting on Art’s shoulder, encouraging him to _give in, just let me touch you like this, I know how much it hurts,_ “Everyone's gotta have someone who sees through all the games.”

Art’s breath hitched, and then he was hugging Felix back, arms strong and lean, and Felix was just _letting him,_ leaning into that firm body and taking what he needed purely through giving.

It felt good to help someone.

His world swayed, vodka swimming in his stomach, and he let his lips wander to Art’s jaw. Innocent. Accidental. And, when Art pressed his face into Felix’s neck, Felix started to suspect that maybe they wanted the same thing. Maybe they _needed_ the same thing.

Art pulled back after a while, cheeks damp, and Felix looked at him evenly, offering himself up using nothing but the honesty in his gaze. He stayed still, letting Art call the shots. Letting him decide.

Art’s hand slid onto his neck, fast and desperate, but he paused. Eyes wide and terrified, still swimming with tears, asking Felix for permission. Felix smiled at him, sad and gentle, and leaned forward. Their lips touched. It was innocent enough, just a brush of closed mouths– but the physicality of Art's need propelled him closer, and their next kiss was deeper, faster, hungrier. Felix gripped Art's shirt, let his hands wander down to the tantalising curve of that spine.

Felix fancied, as they pressed hotly against each other in the quiet familiarity of his apartment, that he could taste his salvation.

 

 


	3. show me your religion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have been struggling with finishing other fics/health issues, but will hopefully be able to finish this soon <3  
> thank you for being patient~

Felix knew what men liked. He’d known since he was sixteen, or maybe fifteen– when exactly he’d figured it out wasn’t exactly certain, because fucking around with boys older than him had turned fluidly into fucking around with _men,_ and the laws around age had never been of much concern to him. He knew what to do. Knew that, when he climbed on top of Art, he should spread his legs and arch his hips forward, just so. Rocking and swaying, fluid undulations. Art’s hands wandered up his thighs, kneading and grabbing, and he lay back on Felix’s bed with a strange look of unease on his face. Felix pulled off his shirt, pouted as he threw it aside.

“What’s that look for?”

Art licked at his lips, frowned. Felix could feel the hard line of Art’s cock straining inside his jeans, so he sat down deliberately, rubbing his ass against Art’s groin, settling the weight of his thighs down solidly.

“Come on,” he murmured, spreading his fingers and running his palms up Art’s chest, “tell me what’s going on inside that head of yours.”

Art’s eyes fluttered closed, his lips pressing together hard. Felix felt a stab of regret, or something even sadder, so he leaned downwards. Pressed his lips into Art’s jawline, kissing up his cheek. Art breathed out hard, sounding shaky, so Felix arched down into him, grinding against his body. Nice and slow. Getting faster, getting more urgent. Art made a broken sound, a blip of helplessness, a sliver of skin hot against Felix’s palm where his shirt was riding up. He had a nice, firm chest.

“Talk to me,” Felix whispered, “talk to me, Arthur.”

Art sighed, the breath trembling from his mouth, caught by Felix’s hovering lips. His eyes were still closed.

“You’re,” Art breathed, “You’re just treating me like all the others. Aren’t you?”

Felix frowned. “The others?”

Art opened his eyes, and the depth of _expectation_ in his face, barely even dulled by intoxication, made Felix shiver. Art moved his arms, shifted them minutely back, and then–

Then he was flipping them over, blanketing Felix’s body with his own. Felix saw it coming, let it happen. Art looked down at him with a shocking amount of softness in his eyes. “All the other _men.”_

“You don’t want me to treat you like a man?”

Art smiled sadly, ignored his sarcasm. “You perform all the time, Felix. Aren’t you sick of it?”

Felix licked at his lips, felt a shudder of defencelessness pulse through him. He knew what Art wanted; he wanted it to be _real._ He wanted it to matter. And Felix… he wasn’t sure if he could do that. He knew how to use sex to comfort other men, but _this…_ he looked up into Art’s dark, pained eyes, and thought, _yeah, I should’ve expected this._ Art was not a man who fucked for fun. Felix should’ve known he’d have to peel away his defences, should’ve expected to need to lay his emotions bare.

“What do you want?” Felix asked, barely letting his voice touch the air. A breath of sound, an undertone to his sigh.

Art pressed a hand against the side of Felix’s face, held him gently. There was more tenderness to his touch than Felix had expected.

“I want you to look at me,” he murmured, as if talking to himself, “I want you to see me.”

Felix felt his lips part, felt mournful understanding bleeding into his expression. He thought of Beth, of a woman driven mad by things she could not understand, and he could imagine the intensity with which Art would have tried to love her.

“I see you, Arthur,” Felix reached between them, hands cupping Art’s neck, “I see you.”

 

***

 

Art was gentle with him. Caring. _Loving,_ even, though Felix wasn’t sure he could claim to know the commitment with which Art had devoted himself to Beth. Or, before that, to his wife.

He wasn’t used to this.

He liked being in control. He liked using his body like a weapon, sidling up to repressed older men and leaning into them, his cheeks pink with alcohol and his lips wet from deliberate flicks of his tongue. He had always preferred having the balance of power during sex, and rarely enjoyed it when he didn’t. Art asked, with his hands and his body, for Felix to give up that control. He didn’t voice it, didn’t say, _submit to me,_ but the tenderness with which he begged Felix– with his kisses and his closeness and his warmth– was unmistakable.

Felix trusted him.

So, he gave in.

He let his head drop between his arms, hanging down in front of him, lungs moving patiently under his ribs as Art smoothed fingers up his spine, pressing a thumb into one of the dimples that sloped the small of his back. He let himself keen, high and quiet, face hidden in fabric when Art pushed into him slowly, apologetically, as if he were trying to ease the pain. He let his heart batter against his ribs, thumping heavy, and he didn’t hide the flash of pain on his face. He didn’t act up, didn’t moan all pretty and say, _you feel so good, baby._

Art kissed him, hands seeking out Felix’s face carefully, moving on top of him until Felix was pressed against the sheets, weighed down heavily. Felix let himself be pinned there, trapped in a comforting warmth. Felix’s bedside lamp painted them softly where they were entwined, their bodies decorated in shades of orange and chestnut.

“Are you okay?” Art asked him.

“Yeah,” Felix replied, eyes closed, broken and quiet, “Yeah, I am.”

Art dragged his hips forward, backwards, and Felix moaned. Genuinely, this time. There was a certain vulnerability that came with being _honest_ like this, and a spark of defencelessness made him flush hot. Nakedness had never felt significant to Felix, not really. Not like this. Art’s presence, the physicality of his strong, dark body, was not something Felix had ever experienced before. Next to Art, he felt thin, pale, demure, breakable; the weakness he’d always pretended to, the pretty boy with his virgin-like excitement, had been stripped back to reveal a much more real vulnerability.

And that frightened him.

“Shh, I got you,” Art told him, somehow sensing it, “I got you.”

He started to grind his waist, moving inside Felix slowly. The silence between them was characterised by slick, intimate sounds, and Felix could feel something _building_ inside him, something he’d never have been able to find during his normal fast, rushed, loud sex. He felt like he was about to cry, felt more turned on than he’d been since– since Colin. Since it had actually felt _good,_ since someone had wanted him enough to touch him like this. And he knew that Art was fighting his own demons, knew that this wasn’t just about him, but he’d been so _lonely_ for so _long_ that he understood what Art had meant.

_I want you to look at me. I want you to see me._

He let out a sob, tightened his shoulders. Art made a worried noise above him.

“Felix?”

“Come on,” Felix whispered, “Come on. Please.”

“You’re crying-”

“I want you to,” he laughed, “I want…”

Art breathed out shakily, pressed his hips forward. Felix opened his mouth against the pillow, let a cry break free from his throat. Art’s hands wandered to his hips, holding, and Felix wanted Art to make love to him. He wanted to be taken apart, piece by piece, until Art had him senseless.

And he didn’t have to say it. Didn’t have to tell Art what he needed, because this was an unspoken thing, an act that was too raw to be quantified in spoken terms. Art moved his hips faster, deeper, and Felix answered him with a hitched breath. The crude act of fucking seemed to be eons away, a world apart from whatever they were sharing.

 _Show me how you loved her,_ he wanted to say.

But he didn’t need to.

 

 


	4. need you in the world

Afterwards, they went to a small hipster café, run by a couple of gay women that Felix occasionally bought dope from. Art sat back amidst the multicoloured, multipatterned cushions, his face soft with a smile that Felix couldn't look too long at for too long or he'd start feeling... funny. He wasn't usually squeamish when it came to sex, but what he and Art had done... it hadn't just been sex. This felt like a goddamn honeymoon or something. Shit, he was in _deep_ , and this was just the first date.

Felix ordered them both lattes, trying not to wonder what Sarah would say if she found out, trying not to speculate about whether Art would want to keep this a secret, trying _not_ to remember the way Art had held him as their naked bodies moved together. He immersed himself in the scene before him, like an artist lovingly considering his subject, noting the way sunlight streamed gently through the windows and kissed the side of Art's face. They had this moment. They had  _time,_ at least for a while, before everything would come to disrupt their lives.

When Art got his coffee, he took a sip and immediately started coughing.

"Too strong for you?"

Art raised an eyebrow. "It's bitter."

Felix smirked. "Bitter and hard, darling, that's how us bohemians like it."

"Yeah, well," Art had another sip, face creasing with adorable intensity, "us suburbanites like it creamy and smooth."

Felix laughed. "On the basis of that alone, we probably aren't a good match."

Art's mouth quirked up into an answering grin. He glanced down, bashful in a way that was utterly uncharacteristic for him.

"I dunno," he replied, peeking up at Felix shyly, "I think you might be wrong about that."

Felix gawked at him for a shocked moment. Then, with a loud groan, he tipped his head back, glaring up at the ceiling in an attempt to avoid Art's beseeching dark eyes. He huffed out a big sigh, embarassed by the way his cheeks were hot with a blush, the way his chest was tight. Art laughed, reached forward to blanket Felix's spare hand with his own. He felt like a  _schoolboy._ He felt like he was in love for the first goddamn time, it was almost  _ridiculous._

It felt right.

 

 


End file.
